


The Right Partner

by charleybradburies



Series: I Know How to Love You (And I Wanna Love You Some More) [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Canon Disabled Character, Community: 1_million_words, Community: fan_flashworks, Complicated Relationships, Confessions, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Disabled Character, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Foreplay, Implied Sexual Content, Internal Monologue, Love Confessions, Masturbation Interruptus, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Past Relationship(s), References to Canon, Sexual Content, Tumblr: otpprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn’t any combination of words in Peggy’s repertoire that would substantiate a plea out of this disaster. </p><p> </p><p>Written for Fan Flashworks Challenge #115: Unidentified Object. Also inspired by the OTPPrompts prompt: Imagine Person A walks in on Person B masturbating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Partner

Wet, needy, kneading…more exposed than she’s used to under the circumstances - it had remained cold enough out that she’d only pleasured herself underneath all the covers; but today, the temperature was much too high for the comforter, and while the fact that the single white silk sheet she’s left with ripples above her as she gropes at herself and her hips buck makes her positioning a bit more natural, a bit more comfortable, a second of thought about it makes the entire thing seem so much more…licentious.

And the **last** thing she needs to hear is the bloody door opening.

“Edwin!” Peggy shrieks, much more shrill than usual, and by the time she’s sat herself up on her bed, the door’s been slammed shut. 

“Very sorry, Miss Carter! I just came by to inform you that Agent Sousa has arrived.”

“That I have,” comes a mutter from outside the door, and when, a moment later, her cheeks turn what must be blood red and she presses her eyes shut in embarrassment, she realizes that his voice sounded slightly less scandalized than she might have expected. 

It doesn’t particularly help.

_Oh, this is **not** happening. _

“I was not aware you had come home either, Mister Jarvis,” she says angrily as she slips into the closest brassiere and zips it up. It’s much…sexier than she might hope - it had been at the backs of her closets for weeks until she wore it on a mission a couple of days ago - but she doesn’t bother changing. He’d walked in on her changing once, and now this - they’d simply have to deal. Somehow. One of these days it really _would_ be too much. 

“Yes, I - I apologize for the dearth of communication. That was **utterly** irresponsible of me, Miss Carter; I’m truly very sorry.”

Now, Jarvis - _he_ was scandalized. 

“Yes, yes. Mister Jarvis, could you please escort Agent Sousa to the kitchen? I will join him in a moment. **You** may return **your** attention to your wife."

“Yes, of course, Miss Carter, of course.”

_Edwin isn’t going to let himself live this down, is he? He’ll probably be apologizing to me for weeks._

But for an estate that boasted a phone in every room and and the stable, they certainly didn’t use the phones enough. 

She doesn’t bother with stockings, only pulling on her underthings, a skirt and the only blouse she’d managed to iron that afternoon before she'd gotten…out of hand. Or rather, in hand. A white blouse, though - and this house really wasn’t cool enough to try to wear anything over it. Well, it was loose...and Daniel wasn’t likely to be paying much attention - when Thompson had tricked him into seeing her changing, he’d barely been able to so much as look her in the eye for days, even after she’d gotten back from Russia. 

_What I would **give** for him to…no, Peggy, do not even entertain a single thought about that. About him, like that. He is your coworker. Your **friend.**_

She smooths her clothing down, hoping to look at least a bit presentable. 

Ugh, her whole body was still tender and craving. This was going to be a bloody difficult evening. 

But she could handle it. She handled herself every day, didn’t she?

She takes a moment in the washroom to clean her hands, even though past experience has taught her that her fragrance remained afterwards; she swallows down as deep a breath as she can and heads down the corridor.

“If you want me to go back home so you can finish up, I can…” Daniel begins as she approaches the kitchen table.

“No, no. I invited you over for a congratulatory drink, we might as well drink. I’m **quite** in need of one, dare I say.”

“Mister Jarvis was under the impression that it was your laundry evening,” Daniel continues, in his over-apologetic manner, and she turns to the counter to grab the bottle of brandy she’d left out. 

“It was, believe it or not. Hadn’t planned on dirtying anything else,” she says lightly but without much thought, and she revokes the flippant temper of the comment a second later.

“I’m sorry, that was really quite crude of me.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s saying much, all things considered.”

Daniel’s voice is casual, not quite teasing, and she can tell that he’s trying not to embarrass her. God, he was so upright.

He’s got a gentle, awkward smile on when she sets the glasses and the brandy on the table, and even though they’re both still a little off guard, it reassures her some, especially since he **is** actually looking at her, trying to evaluate what sort of minefield they were dealing with, as he’s working to incorporate what’s just happened into his perception of her. All bets were off, but she was hopeful that she’d not be returned to ‘daft whore’ status. Perhaps he’d even recognize that she was- 

_Stop it, Peggy. You’re not going there, remember?_

The brandy helps a bit with her nerves - though as they’re speaking, she gets distracted repeatedly. The dim light was just too flattering, dammit. Trying to keep herself focused, she offers to show Daniel the photo album she and Angie have been keeping on the coffee table in the smaller parlor, and they make the walk over only for her to find that this is far worse. Sitting on the couch together, right next to each other, their hands touching occasionally as they flip through the pages - it was going to be too much. 

She doesn’t realize her mind has run away with her again until she feels his hand at her cheek, stroking some of her hair back behind her ear, and she startles. He chuckles when she looks up at him - they really were too close, he was only a matter of inches away - though she’s not entirely sure at what. 

“What on **earth** were you fantasizing about earlier that you can’t get it out of your head?” Daniel inquires, no longer laughing, but with a tantalizingly curious look about him.

“You…don’t want to know,” she fumbles, following her utterance with a silent prayer that he can’t tell that her heart is pounding. 

“That’s debatable,” he shrugs, his smile creeping closer to a smirk and keeping Peggy from being able to breathe properly. Her eyes widen with her surprise, and though she opens her mouth to speak, she can’t say anything, and it turns into a gasp.

Daniel quickly withdraws, nervously moving the hand closest to her to run its fingers through his hair, and pursing his lips for a moment. Peggy can feel her cheeks growing hotter, and the wanting in her body starting to turn to aching. 

_Margaret Carter, get your damn self together!_

“Sorry, that…that was crude of me,” Daniel quietly asserts, blushing. 

“Not saying much, all things considered,” Peggy manages to say, and though it seems to assuage in him what looks like guilt, they both remain rather unnerved, and neither speaks again or looks closely at the other for a couple of tense minutes.

“You know,” Daniel starts eventually, “I - I have indeed enjoyed this evening, but I should probably leave **now,** before I say anything even more inappropriate, or do something reckless.”

He starts to lean into his crutch, pushing himself up from the couch, but heedlessly, one of Peggy’s hands rushes to his forearm and stops him. A cautious look flickers on his face, but he sits back down, looking over at her; once he’s fully seated, he actually meets her gaze, his expression as inquisitive as hers is rueful.

This was bad. This was horrible, terrible, damnable. There wasn’t any combination of words in Peggy’s repertoire that would substantiate a plea out of this disaster.

Daniel's hand moves back to her cheek, though this time she’s facing his direction and he cups it, his fingertips gracing the nape of her neck and eliciting a shiver from her. She makes herself break their eye contact, but as she looks away his other hand oh-so-gently touches her knee and - oh, **God.**

She can hear her own breath start to flutter as it falters. She purses and wets her lips in nervousness, trying to remind herself that she’s not feeling his gaze upon them, because he doesn’t think of her like **that,** like a **lover,** like she **wants.**

But she looks back up and that’s **precisely** what she sees meeting his eyes again; and now she can’t deny that, somewhere inside him, he has the capacity for the sort of covetous look that a woman can feel devouring her whole, and God bless her soul, she was **going** to let him - hell, she just might **beg.** And begging is just what it feels like, when she’s biting her lip and she puts a hand on his shoulder and then she can’t help but lean the littlest bit closer to him - her whole body trembles but without wasting another second his lips are crashing against hers like he’d waited his whole life just to kiss her.

This time when she reaches for him she doesn’t berate herself; she wraps her arms around his neck tightly, even as he turns out not to need urging for his chest to be pressed against hers. After a moment his hands start to move, both traveling gently to her hips and then one continuing down her thigh, surprising her when he actually does tighten his grip rather than simply leaving his hand there to rest. She kicks off her shoes and pops her legs up underneath herself; as her transition to kneeling drives his hand and the hem of her skirt even farther up her thigh, Daniel catches on quickly, and proves himself anything but reluctant to relieve her of her textile encumbrances and make quick work of the trail of buttons down the back of her skirt. 

A shiver runs through her when he puts his hands on her hips again - his hands on her bare skin is too surreal, too good to be true, but too, too corporeal to deny. His desire was manifest and palpable, and impossible to deny as his hands gently push her further towards the end of the couch. She scoots back, whining unabashedly when his lips pull themselves from hers but forgetting that momentary displeasure when they start to trail rough kisses against her neck and collarbone. His hands leave her hips only to jump at unbuttoning her blouse; she drags her fingers down and around his neck to do the same to his dress shirt.

It’s really quite ridiculous that she feels herself blush again once his shirt’s been tossed on the floor, but as enamored as she’s been, she’d not assumed he was quite so muscular. 

She’d known the sweater vests were hiding something. 

Everyone else’s loss.

It’s only when she moves her hands all the way down his chest to strain for his belt that he pulls away from her, and the abruptness with which he does writes concern onto her face.

“Are you sure?” he asks carefully, and it hurts her to see the worry in his eyes.

“Never more,” she replies easily, though her tone is inquisitive. She sits up properly, hoping to convey that the conversation that needs to happen is one she’s willing to have. They’ve had enough conversations that she can tell he knows that she’s waiting, so she doesn’t say anything else, but after a moment she reaches for his hand to hold. His reciprocation of her grasp comes tentatively.

“It’s just that I haven’t - no woman’s seen…it, and stayed, Peggy,” he admits quietly after some time.

“And how many of them had seen battle, would you say?” 

“It’s not that si-"

“You are **alive,** Daniel. That is more than can be said for a great many men, and women, none of whom will ever share themselves with a lover again. It may not be simple nor clear cut, but I am grateful for all of you that I…know.”

“You can say 'have,'” he says, almost teasingly, though she can see that his smile is indeed from her reply. 

“No,” Peggy challenges tenderly, shaking her head and putting a hand back on his chest. “Tomorrow, I can say have. We haven’t had each other yet.”

Daniel leans his head back against the couch.

“I actually haven’t ‘had’ anyone yet, period, at least not in the biblical sense,” he tells her, a bit more softly than she expects.

“Not once?” 

She feels a bit guilty for just how surprised her question sounds, but he barely seems fazed by that, though the awkwardness of such a conversation remains. He shakes his head, but she amends her query before he answers.

“I mean, **I’ve** not had intercourse, but I’d certainly be lying to say I’ve not been sexually inclined or active.”

“Saving for marriage or?” he begins, the look on his face almost one of amusement, marking an objective sort of surprise, rather than implying he’d already formed an opinion as to her virtue. She knew he had at one point…when the SSR was convinced that she and Howard were lovers (ha! it frustrated her greatly, but it was just such an outlandish idea that sometimes it cracked her up) but it seemed that the idea’d not stayed. Still, it was so common now for people to go all the way, especially when they were steady, and it was rather incongruent with her manner to hold to a standard that was considered frigid.

“Not for marriage, no, just…waiting for it to feel… **right.”**

Daniel doesn’t respond immediately, taking a moment to truly realize what she’s said. His grip on her hand tightens, and she leans into his shoulder. He gingerly pushes some of her hair back as he sits all the way on the couch and turns his face towards hers. She takes a sharp breath, biting her lip to keep herself from closing the distance left between their mouths - hers was watering, and with one hand holding hers and another on her thigh she imagines Daniel’s was as well - to find that’s for naught when he’s the one that leans in to kiss her again, albeit very slowly, and just a couple of times. Soft and sweet and tender, and so very him, as is his voice when he speaks afterwards. 

“And this, us, this feels right for you?” he asks, his voice hopeful yet devoid of expectation, his eyes coming up to meet hers - and so help her God she could swear she sees love in them but that was just too bloody cliché to be something that well and truly happened, right? - and Peggy can’t help but smile at him.

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

He seems the littlest bit taken aback, and some of her confidence escapes her grasp.

“I know it sounds awfully foolish to think so, having not even kissed until tonight, but…” 

She just barely notices that he’s shaking his head apologetically, but she can’t find the words to respond; if she had any more words to say at all, they catch in her throat as she tears up. 

_The right partner._

“Oh, God, Margaret, this is not the time,” she grumbles unintentionally, but of course, Daniel realizes what’s happening, and a featherlight kiss is soon graced upon her hairline, his arm slung tighter around her. 

“We had a date,” she says. 

“We were going to go to the Stork Club that Saturday, to dance. He’d once asked me if I danced, and I told him no, I was waiting. For the right partner.”

“You never had that dance.”

“No, of course not.”

His thumb wipes away some of the tears of hers that keep insisting on swimming down her cheeks, and she can feel the slightest bit of discomfort resulting from the smudging of her mascara around her eyes. After her breathing calms, he shrugs, lightly apologetic.

“I’m pretty sure I’m a shit dancer now.”

She laughs, her tears now warm against her hands.

“I’ve never really been much of one myself. Angie says it doesn’t matter,” Peggy says, her voice turning to mocking, “not with legs like mine, but I’d still rather embarrass myself as little as possible.”

“I **knew** I liked her.”

Peggy scoffs as though the comment’s actually surprising. Daniel’s smile is easy, though not entirely comfortable, even as he keeps his tone light.

“What? She's got a point, you know.”

“Apparently!”

“Yeah, put the two of us together, almost make up for this bastard,” he nods, in the direction of his prosthetic. 

“Oh, stop it,” Peggy says, not having anything stronger on hand to contradict him; and with a hand that, almost reflexively, comes to rest itself on his chest, it’s a due subsequence that she pulls him into a gentle kiss a moment later, not entirely focused as she tries to find a way around what he’s just said. 

“Shall we be?” she leans away to whisper at one point, still so close that the tip of her nose still touches his face, close enough that she actually feels his brow as it furrows.

“Shall we be…?”

“Together?” she follows meekly, dropping her gaze only for one of his index fingers to pick her up by the chin so that she looks into his eyes. She bites her lip - she’s seen this expression before, when he wants to smile but knows to analyze the situation before he does.

“Is that what you want?” 

His voice is tentative, hopeful; her breath hitches.

She nods, and presses the sweetest kiss she can against his lips, and feels his smile widen within it, her own following reflexively in turn when he’s the one who reaches to unbuckle his belt a moment later, simultaneously pulling her even closer against him. With his arm wrapped tighter around her, his fingers come to rest at the small of her back for a moment - before slowly climbing her spine up to where her shoulder blades meet each other, holding her in a kiss by the nape of her neck for a few seconds…and then latching on to the zipper of her brassiere, giving that first gentle jerk to pull it out of place and then all too slowly tracing back down her spine, until the zipper is entirely undone. 


End file.
